


Mirror-You

by Control_Room



Series: The W-lly Franks Twins [8]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: 2nd POV, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Child Abuse, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Happy Ending, Hidden Talents, Present Tense, graphic car crash, i’m outta here, who’s the song for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room
Summary: You are Willy Franks, and you are having a terrible mental day.Here’s a lot of reasons of why you are the way you are: why you have scars Wally doesn’t, why you don’t drink, and why you smell like lavender.(just a 2nd person practice.)





	Mirror-You

You stir to life, alone. The top bunk which usually holds your brother, Wally, is empty. You hadn’t slept. You were worried about him. He didn’t come home. Instead, he had left a message on the phone, forty minutes past midnight, letting you know he was going to spend the night at Thomas’, and that he would also be spending sunday with his boyfriend, and then going to work with Thomas monday morning. Basically that you wouldn’t see him for the next thirty six hours, at least. You could have picked up the phone, to object or confirm this, as you had been up. You didn’t. You just laid on your bed, staring up at the bunk above you, listening to your brother briefly explain his plans. He sounded happy. So happy. Probably because he wouldn’t have to put up with you for the next day and a half. Your chest clenches. You feel sick to your stomach. You feel nothing. You squeeze your eyes tightly, and try to think of when you felt something, how nice it was to have feeling. When you open your eyes, you know you are angry. You know you’re upset. At yourself. For having lost the ability to feel. You know you’re not content, but you. Don’t. Feel. It. And you realize you don’t care. It’s not a new realization, no, but it always hurts to remember. Hurt, pain, and agony - those are the only feelings you cause. Those are the only feelings you **deserve**. Disgust wells in your chest, overriding the clenching loneliness. Coward. That’s all you are. You stare at the red clock, watching the numbers tick by oh so slowly. The disgust had made it to your throat, and if you don’t do something about it, release it, you feel as if you might vomit. Feel. What a powerful, yet empty word. A burden for those who don’t have it.

A hollow laugh slips out of your throat, and you hate it. Hate is a feeling, right? Only negative ones seem to stay with you. Not like Wally. He’s optimistic, charismatic, and so good. You’re nothing like him. In fact, you’re his opposite, a nihilistic, socially awkward, and a piece of utter trash. The spare twin, though you might be eldest. Your mother drilled this in. No, not drilled, she didn’t use those, more like branded in. A throbbing pain emerges on your back, small circles of faded scars still causing pain, to remind you of who you are. Nothing but the butt of other’s jokes. Or, more precisely, the joke on which others could smother their cigarette butts. Wally is good and always has been better than you, and so you made sure that it was never him. He doesn’t have the physical reminders of those times. You didn’t allow for that to happen, even at the age of six. You never would let your mother touch him. But you, you deserved the pain. You still do. Worthless. Useless. You can’t do one thing right.

You decide that you need to feel something, something you deserve. Your eyes fall on the hammer you’ve used before. Your leg, your tibia, tingles with anticipation. The hammer is on the side table. You don’t have to get up to raise your G-d damned lazy arm to grab its cool handle. You rub your hand on the metal. So cold. You shiver, sitting up, pushing yourself up onto your weak, pathetic frame. That’s all you are. Pathetic. Turning to a hammer to help you feel. You giggle, rolling up your pant leg to reveal bruises. You’re so pathetic, it’s funny! Stifling a laugh, you raise the hammer, and swing it down. It contacts the bone with a **crack**. You gasp at the pain blossoming in your leg, glorious, sweet, feeling _pain_! Hand shaking, you do the same with the other leg. You giggle again, hitting the hammer repetitively against your arms. None of your bones were broken, that you were certain of, but you didn’t care. Not a bit. You knew they were bruised, but you wanted more. You needed more. Your hands shake. You force yourself up, stumbling to the bathroom. You drop to your knees once inside, opening the small cabinet. You reach your hand far into the back, searching for the cold metal razor. You hide it, like a coward. You pull it out. It’s clean and sterilized. You wouldn’t allow for yourself to die. You don’t deserve it, no matter how much you want to let go. So instead, you rub your fingers against the small razor, leaving miniscule cuts that sting, but nothing real. You roll it into your left hand, and you feel a grin tug onto your mouth. So this is what you use your ambidexterity for, huh? To mark each arm, equally with both hands? With that thought, you turn up your wrist, and make a cut by your elbow, keeping the muscle relaxed. You slowly drag the razor through, watching blood slowly pour out of the wounds, dripping onto white tile. It hurts so _good_! You let the grin loose, shivering from just the sensation of feeling. A giggle leaks out, a high, hysterical tittering, as you swap hands, digging the blade into your left arm. You make three more cuts on each hand, each the same distance apart. Except the last one. Your hand was shaking too much, and this one hurts… more than it should. Tears blur your eyes, even as you chuckle hollowly at the pain. This cut hurt more because you weren’t in control. You need the control, you want to gauge exactly how much pain you get. You drop the razor, and it clatters into a pool of fresh blood. You’re disgusted with yourself now. You don’t want to slip. You don’t want to fall back to drinking. Drinking, at one point, had been your only comfort, bottle after bottle drained. Timothy Dorlin is the reason why you stopped drinking. Never again would you allow yourself to get drunk.

_Screaming. Sirens. A terrifying haze. Ninety miles an hour, or was it more? Well past midnight. Sobered up from fear. Begging him to stop. Pull over, stop, something, anything! Pull over, please! Tim, you’re smashed! Stop! You’re going to crash! You’re going to kill yourself! You’re going to get us both killed! Timothy, stop! PLEASE! TIMOTHY, LOOK OUT FOR THE LEDGE! STO--!_

You pull out of your pain induced flashback. Your hand, dripping with new blood, rises to the right side of your chest. There is a light indent. You swallow roughly. It was gouged out by the metal of the car as you flipped over, glass flying into the arms you used to shield your face. The cuts you just made on your arms tingle from the memory. You’re shaking. You’re shaking from emotion. From fear. From sadness. Only after you feel pain do you feel anything. And only anything painful. You suck in a breath of air, unsure if you’re glad or angry at having survived the crash, pulling yourself out of the burning wreckage, fighting for the primal urge to live. Out of danger, you had looked back. Timothy’s body hung limply against the dashboard, bloody and twisted unnaturally. You threw up. Twice. And until the police came, you had curled into a ball, sobbing into your hands, repeating how it was all your fault. How it should have been you.

You look down at the razor in the blood, feeling sick. Your stomach throbs. And you’re disgusted. Timothy would have wanted you to live. And not just go through the functions of life, but actually live. You hate yourself for not listening to him and his motto. _Live like you’ve never lived before_. You’re saddened at his loss. Maybe you’ll visit his grave today. You haven’t in a long time. You clean the mess, washing the razor, about to return it to its hiding place. You stare at the shiny-again metal, and you despise it. You hate what you’ve used it to do. You scowl. You throw it out, making sure to bury it within the trash. You don’t want to see it ever again. You wash your arms, making sure not to look at yourself in the mirror, but you feel ‘your’ burning gaze. You fight the urge to look up. You lose. You see ‘yourself’, albeit a twisted, mangled version. You see all your flaws in high relief. Every scar seems so much larger. The bags under your eyes from never sleeping are dark and heavy. You try to smile. It looks like a grotesque mimicry of the expression. Mirror-you grins wider, stretching the smile into a close approximation of a glasgow grin. You feel your own smile slip. You know you’re not seeing you, but who you know yourself to be. A fake copy. Day in day out, a facade. Mirror-you is lanky, covered in your scars magnified. Wide and insane eyed. Large smile. Fake smile. Mirror-you follows you on your worst days, hovering behind you. For now, it seems content that you’ve already fallen today. You tear your gaze away. Mirror-you still is watching you. You don’t look back. You had taken bandages with you. You quickly use up what’s left of the roll. You slip on your jacket, grab your umbrella, and leave the apartment.

You don’t watch where you’re going. You know the way by heart. You don’t look up, knowing Mirror-you to loom in every shop window. You focus on the ground. It hasn’t rained in a while. You always have your umbrella on you. You enter the graveyard. The undertaker nods at you. You know each other due to the amount of time you’ve gone to visit the dead. First, you go to a simple grave, with only a name etched on it. Rupert Franks. You only stand and pay your respects. He was a good father, when he was around. You looked up to him. He had gone to fight for America. And then the Germans killed him. Well, he was shot, sent home, and died from his wound. You stood there for maybe twenty minutes before stirring. You sigh, wishing you had the chance to get to know him better. You move on to the next grave you had come to see, Timothy’s. It also wasn’t anything special, just a slab marked with the name, Timothy Dorlin. You sit down.

Timothy was like your brother, in a way. Well, he was your half brother, thanks to the whore that was your mother, though neither of you knew until much later. He was older than you by a year. He stayed with his dad. He was a rowdy kid, and he took a liking to you instantly, taking you under his wing, sneaking into bars underage, vandalism, and the such. But your common sense and morality always kept you from doing some things, like smoking, getting wasted (though you were often tipsy or drunk), stealing, and driving under the influence. Timothy would always call you a sissy, but look who’s dead now. A laugh bubbles out, and it ends in a sob.

It gets darker. You stay there for a long time, reminiscing, leaning against the cold slate of rock, heated significantly by your body heat. You get up as the sun begins to hide behind the trees. You don’t want to go home yet. But it’s dark. You have no choice. You mentally say goodbye, painfully pulling yourself to your feet. You leave. It’s dark. Nearly black, but you still opt to walk. It takes much longer than the way there. You don’t know why. You let yourself into the empty house. It’s dark. You don’t bother with the lights. You go to your shared room. You lay down. You stare upwards, the glare of the analogue clock reflecting off your open eyes. It’s going to be a long night.

You’re still staring above you as the sun’s rays peak through your window. You blink groggily. Again. You swing your legs over the edge of your mattress, ignoring the cold of the floor. The bathroom still has the faintest smell of cleaning supplies from yesterday. You remove the bandages to assess the damage. It’s not that bad, as the cuts you had made were not particularly deep. You try to smile in the mirror. Still looks fake, maybe even worse than yesterday. The bags under your eyes certainly are. You splash some water on your face to wake yourself up, not bothering to deal with the mess of tangled hair, curls sticking out randomly. You look awful. You know no one would notice, not even Wally. You rewrap your arms.

“Fake it til you make it,” you mumble to yourself, trying to test your voice after two days of disuse. Again, louder and more clear, “Fake it til you make it.”

“Ų͢n̷̵lè͞ş̷͟s̀҉ ͠y̢o͞͝u͢ ̢b҉̴͜ŗ̕͞e͘a͢k̸҉ ̶ì̴t̵,” you hear yourself giggle. You freeze. No, not again, not one of those days. “Ģ͢ue̷̵s̛s̡͡ ̶̷̀w͏h̢̀o’̕͠͞s ̕͏c͠͞o҉m̡͘i͝ǹ̕’̵̸͜ ̵to͡ ̸҉wo͘͞͝r̀͘k̷̀͡ w͜i̷͟͠t̸̢̛h͘ ̨̨͢y͢͏o̶͟u̷?͝͡ ̶͞Ţ͘͝h̵̀͠e̛͠ ̧͢ot́h͜͢͞e̷͞r ̶yo̵̢u͘!͠͝ ́Ţ̸h̡̛͜e͢ **ŗ̴̢è͝a̵l̷̡** ̶you͜!̀͠” Mirror-you pauses, then giggles again, with more malice. “We̴͏͡l҉͟l̶͏,̧ ̀͜m͞o̕͠r̸e ̕li͢͢ķ̸e͢ ̸́͜t̴̕͡h̡҉e͞ ̡r̢e̶̕s̵͜t͏̢ ̸o͡͏̢f̶̢ ̵̶y͢o͘͠u̡̧. ͘T̨he̕ ̴y̸̶o̶u҉ ́̕͜yo̴u̸̶͠ ͏̷͡h͟͟i͢͝҉d̢͝e̴͜͢.̧̨́”

You groan. You grab your umbrella and leave. You can feel Mirror-you behind you, watching your every move. You walk as fast as you can, practically sprinting to work to shake the tingling feeling. Mirror-you giggles again, practically in your ear this time. You shudder.

“Yo̸u c̢an͟’t̶ ̸hi͞de͘ from̨ ͝your̸sel҉f͟!” It lets out a laugh, hysterical and drawn out. You must admit it has a point. “Why ̀no̶t ̨em̵b́r͞a̕cé ͝w̶ho̡ ͝y҉ou ar͘e, and̨ ͜descend͞ ͢i̕nto͞ co͜m̕pe͢t̕e ̧mádness͜? ̡Y̶ou̴’̨re ͢alḿośt ther̕e҉ ̨a͢l͢rea͞dy.͡”

You ignore yourself, and shatter it away (at least for a little), with the thoughts of books and writing. The next book you want to read. How the library is no longer segregated, surprisingly. You can go and read there. Soon, you make it to work. ‘You’ are there, too, but only as a buzz in the back of your head. You go in, clock in after glancing at the time (four fifty three), starting to clean from the bottom up. You have a goal in mind. After three hours of work (you hated doing bathrooms for obvious as well as not clear reasons [frickin’ mirrors everywhere]) and the early birds arriving, you make it there. The music department. Most of the people that work in this department don't show up until nine. You have around an hour. You slip into one of the closets, looking around to make sure no one was watching, you pull out a recorder and a bag. In the bag are cassettes, and the recorder is rigged unlike any other, with five extra slots, totaling at seven. You made it yourself. You bring it with you to the recording studio, plugging in your headphones to gauge where you were so far in the song you were working on. You listen to the audio twice, dissatisfied with… something. Mirror-you frowns from the piano-forte’s reflective cover. It’s an odd picture, considering ‘you’ are usually smiling.

“Mo͟v̢ȩ ̸d͟rum b͠ea̛t ̴ǹumber̨ ͟t̴hr̷ee҉ faste̛r ͝t͟hree ́be͘àts,” Mirror-you advises. The other part of you could be so smart sometimes. You don’t let anyone know about your musical talents, so that goes to the hidden part of yourself, your Mirror-you, the one only you know. “And sl̢ow̶ dow͘n҉ h̴ar̨m҉ony̢ ͏si̸x.͟”

You smile as you listen to the updated song. It’s perfect. Now you only need to add the main course. That’s why you keep so many spare cassettes on you, incase you mess one up. You jump into Susie and Allison's booth, firing up the hanging mic, hooking it up to your device, another one of your modifications. You record the song, messing up a few parts, a some repeats, a couple stutters, but despite the setbacks, in the end, you had recorded the full audio. Mirror-you advised a few edits, and it was perfect. Until inspiration for another verse kicked in. It was just a slight addition, not a big thing. And you want to add it. You rev up the mic again, and start singing when your recording reaches the gap you want to fill. You close your eyes and let Mirror-you tell you the words. The music trails off when you finish, and you pull off the headphones.

You freeze when you hear clapping outside the booth, right outside of your line of sight. You grab your stuff, leaping through the window. Jack Fain grins at you.

“Did you write that, Willy?” he asks calmly, as though you didn’t just sing your heart out to no one. Well, it was for someone, but the room was empty. “It was nice.”

“How long have you been standing there?” you blurt, embarrassed. You’re instantly more embarrassed by what you said. “I mean… good morning, Mr. Fain?”

“Since about ‘my love was there’,” Jack answers, looking over your face for a reaction. Mirror-you blushes, but you don’t let it show. “And what an odd looking machine.”

He reaches to touch your upgraded recorder, and you instinctively pull it away, Mirror-you pulling it back with you. Jack looks slightly surprised, but he smiles.

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Fain,” you muster a smile to go with the words. “But this is a very personal object. I’d rather it stay intact.”

“Understood,” he smiles again, and it looks real. Not like your fake or exhausted ones. He begins to walk to his writing desk. “And by the by, Wally was looking for you. Shawn, too.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fain,” you mumble, putting your stuff away inside the bag. You go to the janitor’s closet and hide it behind a false wall. It’s just a few planks pried off, hammered together, then returned to the wall on a hinge. Hidden in any case. You step out, setting your mind on finding Wally. After fifteen minutes of not being able to locate your twin, you let out a growl of frustration. “Where is he in this blasted studio?”

“Try̕ th́e ҉recor̛di̕ńg st͟ud̴iơ,̶” Mirror-you yawns, revealing how tired you really are. You stifle that yawn from materializing. “He c̢ould͞ be ̷wor̵k̸in̵g on ̡hís̵ To̢m̷ ͘t̕h͡e̡ ̀W͟ól͟f ̛l͝i̢n̡e̴s̛.”

It makes sense. You listen, trudging up the stairs, happy it was only one floor up from where you were. Sure enough, Wally is there, beside Allison. They were discussing their lines earnestly, both excited for the airing of the toon. Wally notices you, and waves you over. You force a smile, and in the glass of the recording booths, you can see your exhaustion, prevalent in your smile. Allison doesn’t notice. Nor does Wally.

“Hey brother!” he greets you. You wave halfheartedly.   
He gives you a critical look before continuing. “Sammy, again, asked us to take care of a burst pipe or whatnot, apparently a two person job. You ready?”

“Sure,” you reply, waiting for your brother to start moving before you do. You wave at Allison. She smiles and waves back. “Have a lovely day, Miss Pendle.”

You go down the stairs with your brother, edges of your vision flickering from the fact your appetite had vanished for the past few days, and you hadn’t eaten since friday. Though you are not hungry, your body certainly craves something to eat. You ignore it, and you see Mirror-you grow all the more thin in the corner of your eye. You ignore it. You hear Sammy babble instructions, and you don’t care, you know the drill. It’s like you’re a child again, with boring adults telling you how you don’t know how the world works. Sammy could be so demanding, but he didn’t know how ridiculous he was with those feathers in his hair. He didn’t seem to notice. You do, and seeming strict Sammy looking so foolish, your mouth itches into a grin.

You almost laugh, Mirror-you already guffawing on the floor in an ink puddle. Sammy looks at you, angered.

“And may I ask what is so funny?” he demands, eyes narrow. He sounds so funny looking like that, as though a chicken slept on his head. “Willy?”

“Nothingsir,” you quickly respond, struggling and failing terribly to keep a straight face. “It’s just…” you watch a feather float to the ground. You crack a little more. You can’t help it, and you’re giggling now. “Heh, ha, you… sir, are you aware of the amount of feathers on your head?”

“Feathers?” the perplexed Sammy says, reaching up to the top of his head, pulling out a clump of down from his blonde hair. “What the f*ck?”

You feel yourself cracking. You look down with a grin, and it feels so wide and unnatural. You hate it. Mirror-you stops laughing, raising itself out of the ink. It scrapes it’s fingers down your jaw. You grip below your elbow tightly, digging your fingers into the fresh cuts, trying to distract yourself with pain.

“Your m̨a̴sk ̡is ̴br̕e̵a͟king,” Mirror-you giggles, and there’s a dangerous glint in ‘your’ eyes. You see Wally glancing at you with concern, he’s seen you break down enough times to know the signs. Mirror-you’s fingers slide off, and it shrugs. “H͞o҉ld ͠i͠t̨ t̴o̷ge͢th͟er, o͞r ͜else.̷...҉”

You and Wally make quick work of the mess, and when you’re finished, Wally surprises you by grabbing your wrist and dragging you to the public room, something he never does. You know why he’s doing it though. When you two come in, everyone glances up. Wally shoves you into a seat. He’s mad, isn't he? He sets down a bowl of freshly heated soup with a spoon stuck in the middle. Your mouth waters at the smell.

“Eat,” he orders. You look up in surprise. He bangs his knuckles on the table. “I’m waiting.”

“I’m not hungry,” you lie through your teeth. Mirror-you, reflected in the bowl, snickers. Wally stares down at you, not buying a word. You blush. “M-maybe a little.”

“Then eat.”

You tentatively pick up the spoon under Wally’s watchful eyes, and hesitantly eat a spoonful of soup. You struggle to not grimace at the fact you don’t taste it. Not that it doesn’t have a taste, just that you don’t sense it. You force yourself to eat a few more spoonfuls. It’s hard to even go through the motions. Mirror-you sighs.

“M̶ý t͡u͢rn.̛”

You feel yourself relaxing as the part of you that you keep from everyone flows into you. You eat another mouthful of soup. Flavor bursts in your mouth, and your appetite suddenly fires up to the max. Your eyes widen, and you quickly scarf down the rest of the soup. Glorious feeling! How you missed it! You’re still famished, though you’re only realizing now how hungry you are. You look at the empty bowl guiltily. Wally laughs at your expression, and a smile creeps onto your face. He gets you another bowl. Another two are finished before you finally feel content. Mirror-you slips out.

“Fu͝ck̡in̢’ ̷fi͏ńal̡ly,” it growls. It looks a little healthier, but still much thinner than it should be. “I ̛n͏e͟ed ̴to ̧e̸at̶ m̧o͘r̴e̸ ͠o͟f͘te̸n.͞”

“You’re darn right you do,” Wally groans, sitting down next to you. You realize you said that out loud. You look away with a flush, and you grab your arm again, squeezing the cuts to focus on the pain. Wally narrowed his eyes. “Let me see your arms.”

The soup you just had seems to go bad inside of you as your stomach turns. You look up at Wally with wide eyes. He extends his hand, waiting for you to put yours in his. You lower your head as you undo your cuffs, pulling up the sleeves. The bandages are covered in dried blood. Wally gently removes them. You don’t watch. You can see him shake his head in your periphery. You can tell he’s counting them.

“Well… it’s not as bad as the last time, at least,” he points out. You keep your gaze locked on the floor by your feet. Wally scoots his chair closer to yours. “Was this yesterday or the day before?”

“Yesterday,” you mumble, hunching over from shame. Your face burns. “I… I threw away the razor though….”

“A razor?” Wally asks, eyebrows raised. He relaxes a little with a sigh. “Maybe you should go see Shawn. He tends to leave you in a happier state.”

“Okay,” you say bluntly, getting up. Wally gets up as well, presumably to get himself his own lunch. “See you, brother.”

“Same to you,” he retorts, and smiles, that lazy, goofy smile you can’t seem to have as well. “Have fun, bro.”

You go down to the Heavenly Toys department, passing the toy machine, running a hand on the metal. Mirror-you seems normal, almost. You relax. An Irish curse rings out, and you smile (unbeknownst to you, a real, genuine smile), and pick up your pace. You peek into the Shawn’s workstation. Sure enough, another ink bucket spilled. It soaked into the splattered floor rather quickly, and you step into view. Shawn grins, that wonderful, positive grin that overflows with energy. He comes close to you, wrapping an arm around you, and cupping your cheek. You lean into his warm touch.

“Hello there, gorgeous,” he practically  _purrs_ , and it’s precious. You blush, a tired smile finding its way onto your face. You look at this wonderful man with adoration, this amazing artist with twinkling bright blue intelligent eyes. This man you **don’t deserve**. He deserves _better_ than you, so much better. Your smile fades, and your gaze drops to the floor. He studies your face, and then leads you to the secret passage to his loft. What a smart man. He sits you on the chaise lounge and sits beside you, pulling you close. You rest your head on his shoulder. “What’s wrong, my mhuirnín?”

You feel yourself break at the same time you feel Mirror-you join the rest of you. A sob wracks your body, and you turn to bury your face in Shawn’s neck. He pulls you onto his lap, holding you close. Such a strong, handsome man. You raise yourself to kiss him on the cheek, and as you pull away, he moves to capture your lips on his own, those lips with the most quintatious laugh. And now, emotions coursed through you relentlessly, any you know that Shawn is breathtaking (in more ways than one) and you must be the luckiest person ever, to be the one that he takes the breath away from. You keep your lips on Shawn’s, praying that this won’t fade away. He pulls away, but almost immediately returned. You feel like crying again, but because you feel this. Your emotions flood into you, emotions from ages ago, recent ones, but emotions nonetheless. You let out a shuddering sob. Shawn pulls you closer. You break away after some time, leaning your head on his shoulder. He kisses your neck, whispering reassurances. Eventually you open up to him, relating your lack of emotions, your insomnia, your self forced fasting, the hallucinations that stemmed from that, and finally, the new injuries you inflicted on yourself. He listens, and tells you it’s okay. You can feel like this. It’s okay. And you believe him. Mirror-you dissipates into real you, and you feel whole once more.

All is peaceful until Norman’s yelling is suddenly heard. You jump to your feet like a cat that got its tail pulled. Shawn laughs until he hears the reason of Norman’s rage, and then he instantly stops laughing.

“Wally Franks, you f*cking imbecile!” Polk shouts. You feel your blood boil. No one is allowed to take to or about Wally like that. You jump down to the toy area, Shawn following. You both dash up the stairs to see the confrontation. Wally is facing a livid Norman with a sullen expression. Ruined reels are scattered all over the floor. “You worthless idiot! Why the hell did you drop all of this, you klutz!? Move your lazy *ss and hop to it!”

“Mr. Polk, I would prefer it if you spoke to my brother in a respectful manner,” you coldly intervene. He glares at you. “Please apologize.”

“No,” he growls, and continues to rant at Wally. You notice Thomas nearby, uncomfortable. You walk over to him, and pluck the monkey wrench from his hands and aim it. Then you throw it, and it connects with pipe, tearing a gap. The ink spurts directly onto Norman, who swivels around to stare at you, covered in ink and enraged. “Why you little-”

You bolt, very aware of the fact Norman is practically at your heels. You’re practiced on the stairs though, and you take four at a time, practically flying up. You sprint into a hallway, locking yourself in a room. You glance frantically around as Norman pounds on the door. You see a clock out station, and a window. You punch out quickly, then rush to the window. You’re on the second floor. You stare down. There are bushes beneath. You swing out one leg, pulling your head under and out. Now for the rest of you. You suck in a breath, and go out the rest of the way. And you let yourself fall. You land in the bushes on your stomach, and you’re glad that it isn’t thorny. You hear Norman break down the door above you, and you roll to press yourself against the wall. His head pokes out, and he doesn’t see you. He swears, and leaves. You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding in. You exit the bushes, and you brush leaves from yourself. You already worked nine hours, you’re free to go. So you walk home grab your umbrella, and leave to the bustation that goes out of town. You have a destination in mind as you hop on. A young, darker skinned girl follows you on, pulling along a half asleep lighter skinned girl, who seems a year or two younger than the former.

“Anywhere,” she tells the bus driver in a raspy voice. He raises an eyebrow, but nods anyways. She leads the younger one and herself down the isles to the segregated seats, setting the younger one on the comfortable white booths while she sat on the other side of the line. She keeps making a motion with her hand, and you instantly recognizes what she’s saying, ‘do you know sign?’

‘Yes,’ you sign back. She looks at you in surprise. ‘Why?’

‘We…’ she looks at the girl in the seat in front. ‘We need to get out of our house for a while. We need somewhere to go for a little bit.’

You smile.

‘I know just the place.

So you go with these little girls to a place, a little place tucked away, just beyond the city, a little place with a run down barn, a small field where there are lavender flowers as far as the eye can see, aside from a single willow tree in the centre of the flowers, swaying in the breeze.

Before you found this place, there were only a few stalks of the plant, withering and dry. You wanted them to flourish. You don’t know why. You inquired as to who the owner of the field was. No one was, you learned. You got rights to it from the city. And you helped it grow, step by step. It was lengthy and frustrating, but you are proud of yourself. Proud. That’s a feeling, right? And not necessarily a bad one, is it?!

The younger girl takes your hand.

“It’s beautiful,” she gasps. You laugh. She looks at you with wide eyes. “Can I play in it?”

“Sure,” you tell her with a smile. She laughs with glee, and sprints into the purple field. Only her dainty red bow is poking out from the flowers. You smile as you watch her make a garland. Then you notice the older one sitting against the Willow tree, watching the other girl carefully. You wade through the plants, and sit upon reaching the other. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Gonner Kidd, sounds like ‘Connor’,’ she signs back and shrugs. ‘My parents didn’t have a girl’s name in mind for me, so they just swapped two letters. She’s Marina Kidd.’

‘And why did you need somewhere to go?’

She curls in on herself.

“Have you ever thought about a world where everything is exactly the same…” she rasps, keeping her focus on the little girl in the flowers, who had somehow found and befriended a cat. “Except you don't exist? Everything functions perfectly without you… ha, ha… The thought terrifies me.”

Her gaze fixates on you, piercing and tired.

“But it doesn’t,” she continues, staring at the dirt she clenched in her hands. “Because that’s how our parents treat us.”

“I get that,” you say softly. Memories of your mother spur through your thoughts. You shake your head sadly, and open the umbrella.

“An umbrella…?” she incredulously asks, tilting her head and looking at the sky. “But it's not raining.”

“Yes,” you admit, but smile. “But it’s raining somewhere else.”

You tap her head.

“Ha, ha…” she smiles, her voice still scratchy as she laughs minutely. She leans against you. “You know, that does make me feel a little better about this.”

The little girl plays till she tires herself out, and stumbles over to you and Gonner with a yawn. It’s sunset, and the orange is beautiful against the purple field. She makes grabby hands at Gonner, who picks her up. You walk with them to the bus stop, and you pay their fare as well. You walk them home, and as you turn to leave, a small hand grips yours.

“Thank you,” Gonner whispers, to not wake Marina. She locks eyes with you. “But… please forget about me.”

“No,” you say, shocked. You drop to a kneel, so you’re the same level. You write down your address and number, and give her the paper. “Don’t forget about me. Come or call if you ever need help.”

She looks at the paper in her hand. She looks up at you with tears in her eyes. You smile and get up, and wave goodbye. She goes into the house with whom you can only presume is her sister. And you go home.

Wally is waiting for you. He smiles as he greets you. You smile back, and you both eat diner, making idle chat, Wally telling you how the rest of the day went. It’s nice. You go into the bathroom before bed and look in the mirror.

**It’s just you.**

You smile. Still tired, but a little less forced.

You’re on your way to making it.


End file.
